The return of Sherlock Holmes
by capricorn5
Summary: This is the beginning of Sherlock, the third series. He comes back from the dead and his first case is to get rid of Moriarty's right hand. Based on "The adventures of the empty house" a new character shows up to help tell the story.
1. Chapter 1

John walked up the stairs, a single grocery bag in hand, the cane on the other, helping him to stay steady. Mrs. Hudson was not at home, but that was normal the last couple of weeks. Not that they talked all that much, anyway. The connection was Sherlock, had always been Sherlock. And there he was again, creeping into his thoughts like a snake, silently and all of a sudden. The ache was almost unbearable, and tangible, he could almost grab it and shape it. Unfortunately he couldn't send it away.

He took a deep breath before reaching the last step, aware of the room he would find. It was always a struggle, to try and not see the skull, the chair, the books, the little bits that belonged to him. He should have been used to it by now. He should have moved on. But, in truth, do you ever move on after a close friend is dead? Do you ever forget? No. It just lingers there, hidden but ready to jump at the first opportunity.

The light got in through the window, reflecting the shadows of the buildings across the street. Weird, he had closed the curtains before he left. Maybe Mrs Hudson had opened them. She always said the house needed more light and more life. Yes, it did indeed need more life. But that wasn't something John could provide just by opening a curtain.

As he walked in and put the grocery bag on a small table by the entrance there she was, a young woman, standing next to the fireplace, running her fingers through the chunked wood. Hitting the fireplace with the cane was not a good idea, but he only realised that when Mrs Hudson came up the stairs, asking what the hell he was doing to her fireplace. Those were the bad days.

"Excuse me, can I help you? " John asked, unsure.

She turned around. Long, dark brown and slightly curled hair, brown eyes, wearing a black jacket, and a black scarf. Was wearing jeans, though, and that lighted up her image a bit.

"Oh, hi." she said back, with a short smile.

Suddenly John understood.

"Oh, you're here for the apartment? I didn't know they would send someone today. Mrs Hudson usually leaves me a message when someone comes to take a look at it. It's not very tidy up but I assure you it does look good when it's taken care of."

She flickered a smile again, taking a long look at his cane.

"No, I am not here for the apartment. Not this one, at least. I am taking the other one, 221C. It's available."

"Well, but this one is also for rent, the room upstairs is available and I am looking for a flat mate. " said John.

"But you already have a flat mate, Dr. Watson."

She knew his name, how did she know his name? Had Mrs. Hudson mentioned it to her? Probably.

"How do… " started John. But she turned her back and grabbed the skull, taking the pack of cigarettes from it. "It would be better if you didn't touch that."

"Oh, he won't mind."

John lowered his head and held the cane tightly. No, he wouldn't. Not anymore. And then it hit him.

"Why are you here all alone? Where is Mrs. Hudson?"

"She had to leave. A problem with her sister, she said. Of course she was just going to the grocery shop again. She's dating the owner from what I could see. And her sister lives too far away anyway. The look on her face when I gave her a grocery list…" she added, laughing.

"And she left you here, all alone. And why? I mean, if you don't want to rent the apartment..."

"I can't rent the apartment. It's kind of taken, isn't it, Dr. Watson? You do have a flat-mate, as far as I know, even if he is not here right now. I would have to move out eventually. Or _you_ would since the room upstairs used to be yours and that's the one you are offering right now."

"But I don't have a flat mate. Not anymore. And he certainly won't return. My flat-mate… He died. "

John swallowed. It was still hard to say it out loud. It made it more real.

"Well, I don't believe that's true. And you shouldn't believe it either. Not everything is what it looks like. I do know that under the circumstances it may seem like it is so, like he is indeed dead, but usually we have to go below the surface."

"What are you talking about?" John asked, unsure "And who are you? How do you know the room upstairs was my room?"

She didn't answer. Instead, she smiled again and spoke.

"You and everyone says Sherlock died. Still, I would like somebody to explain how the hell this pack of cigarettes ended up here, inside Bill, the skull. Did you hide it here, Dr. Watson?"

John took a minute to think. He did. He and Mrs. Hudson. He had given them to Sherlock eventually but Sherlock didn't need them anymore at the time, so John had put them back where they used to be, inside the skull.

"Yes, I did." He answered finally. "A long time ago."

"Then. Dr. Watson, you might have thought of checking it once in a while. It's almost empty." She pointed out, opening the package that held only three or four cigarettes. "He was doing so well, that idiot!" she paused for a while, looked around and continued "Then, everybody says he is dead, but listen to this."

The violin had been there forever, where he had left it. Still, she picked it up and started to play, like he did so many times.

"Do you hear it?" she asked as she finished playing, and waited for an answer.

"It sounds just fine to me." pointed out John.

"Exactly!" she nearly shouted, "It sounds just fine! This violin hasn't been played in months and still it is perfectly tuned. Quite odd, wouldn't you say?

"Sorry, are you trying to say someone played that violin?" john couldn't believe what he was hearing. That girl, whoever she was, was crazy.

"No, I am saying that Sherlock played this violin! That Sherlock has been keeping this violin tuned. "

John shook his head.

"Come on, you can't seriously think that, even if Sherlock wasn't dead, what as much I would like to believe it, is ridiculous, he would play the violin here. In this house. People might hear him."

"Oh, he would know when you and Mrs. Hudson weren't at home."

"Still, how risky would that be? What if we showed up, unexpected, what if we heard him play? Neither I nor Mrs. Hudson have strict schedules."

"Oh, Dr. Watson. He was dying to get caught! But he never was…" she sighed and turned to the bookshelf with a twist. "And then, there are the books!"

"What's wrong with the books? I put them in the shelf. They haven't been rearranged or…"

"Of course they have not! But this book here is yours, if I am not mistaken, isn't it?" she picked a book from the shelf. Yes, it was John's and she continued without waiting for an answer. "Still, you left it here, among his books! And why? Because he asked you for the book, what, a day before he died? Yes, probably, not more than two… He asked you for the book and he left a message in it for you. It should be quite a familiar thing; you once had a case with messages in books. But Sherlock forgot, like he always does, that people try to avoid what hurts them. So you just put the book among his things and left it there, not even minding to open it. Ah, but if you had, Dr. Watson, if you had!"

John was beginning to get upset. That was just a book. She was crazy. There was no message. Sherlock was dead.

"There is no message in that book. I really don't think you…"

"But there is a message, Dr. Watson, there is." she opened the book and the first sentence was underlined with a black marker. "The first sentence to this book. You think he asked for the book because he really wanted to read it? That it was a random thing? No. It's here, underlined. The first sentence of this specific book. "He is not dead"."

John reached out, and held the book. It was there indeed, underlined.

"And there's more, if you still don't believe me!" she continued, turning around, approaching Sherlock's chair. "This chair. I assume you've been sitting here most of the time now, right?"

"Right…" John said, unsure where that would go.

"So, there are two marks here, on the carpet. The first mark, the deepest one, is facing the TV. That's your mark. But then, there's this mark here. Not so deep, so I should say the chair is not facing that direction so often. Sherlock doesn't watch TV. But you do Dr. Watson. So Sherlock comes here, he sits for a few hours with a space of every two or three days, and you come home and sit to watch TV and change the chair again. And you probably think it is just Mrs. Hudson that's been rearranging the furniture." She ran her hands through her head, shaking it. "My God, he's been giving you so many hints and you don't even see it… He will be very disappointed… "

"Listen," John started, when she didn't say anything else, "I don't know who you are or why you are trying to imply what you are trying to imply with what you are saying, and I also don't know why those words on the book are underlined or how is the violin tuned but yes, obviously the chair was all Mrs. Hudson's… And maybe she started smoking too, Sherlock's dead affected her as well… I don't know. The thing is, it is already painful to think about Sherlock being dead without someone coming here and try to tell me otherwise. I don't want to think otherwise. Sherlock is dead. If I get a bit of hope it's… it's going to crash me again, okay? So, no matter how clever and apparently logical your deductions sound, if you are not interested in the apartment I would ask you to leave. Now."

"My dear Dr. Watson, I am very interested in the apartment. But like I said, it's already taken. Actually, you should ask Mrs. Hudson to stop finding you a flat mate, because it will be quite awkward to send the person away when Sherlock does come back."

John took a deep breath. He didn't want to be rude and lose it. He just wanted her to shut up and stop talking about it.

"Listen." He repeated "Sherlock will not come back. Sherlock is… is… dead." He said the words slowly, trying to get the message through.

She smiled.

"Oh now, is he? " and looked to the side, a smile playing in her lips.

John turned his head to the door, following her gaze.

"Hello, John."

He was thinner, if possible. Dressed a bit more casual, with his coat, the collar up, the scarf hanging from his neck and hands behind his back. There. Real. _Alive_.

And in that moment, before he fainted, John was sure he had finally lost his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter two

John moved a bit in the couch, feeling a slight ache on his left shoulder. The voices were getting clearer.

"You really are such a drama queen." Said a woman's voice, but seemed amused "Couldn't you just leave him a note? Nope. Waiting for the perfect time to make it… dramatic. I hope he kills you for real this time. I thought you said he was a war doctor. Quite a fragile one I must say."

"He will be okay. He's moving." said Sherlock.

Sherlock.

John opened his eyes, letting the blurred vision fade away. There he was, right in front of his eyes, kneeled on the floor and shaking him slightly. Sherlock Holmes.

"John, are you okay?" he asked, concerned.

"You!" John shouted, raising his back from the floor. "You are here! You… I thought you were dead!"

Unexpectedly John punched Sherlock in the face. Sherlock's head went backwards and forth again and john grabbed his throat, trying to hurt him. He did not want to kill him. But pain seemed like a fair trade for what he had done.

"You lied to everyone! Me! Mrs. Hudson! Mycrof and Lestrade!" shouted John, over the incomprehensible words Sherlock tried to mumble.

"John!" Sherlock managed to say "I can explain."

"Explain? I don't want any explanation. You were not dead but I am going to kill you now!"

The young woman came in from the kitchen with a mug in hand, a huge smile.

"Here, drink this after you finish him. It's going to help."

John let go of Sherlock, who fell to the floor, holding his throat.

"What is it?" He asked the girl, picking the mug and getting up.

"Good old tea. Don't worry, it's not poisoned. There was nothing stronger. Actually, there is hardly anything to eat or drink in this house." She said as she left for the kitchen again.

Sherlock got up, cleaning his clothes and stepped away, staring at John. John stared back, drinking the tea, a look full of hatred.

"I am sorry." Sherlock said, still feeling his throat.

John didn't say anything for a while. He drank the tea. Then he paced back and forth, still drinking.

"How…" he said "What were you thinking?"

"I had to do it. Everyone's safety was at stake. It was necessary."

"You… do you have any idea what have been going through these last months? Do you? I saw you jumping from that roof! I saw you covered in blood on the floor. You said you were a fake. You said "Goodbye John". I was there, at your funeral. I…" The words got stuck in his throat and John sat on the chair, catching his breath. "And all this time, that I was here, looking for a flat-mate, going to my therapy sessions, trying to figure out why… you were alive."

"I said I am sorry." Repeated Sherlock. He approached his chair, rearranged its place and sat. The girl came from the kitchen with two more mugs of tea, passed one to Sherlock, sipped from her own and Sherlock asked her "Can you please tell him I am sorry? He doesn't seem to believe me."

"Oh, you're begging." She noted. "I will, but only if you let me crash in your couch for a couple days. 221C is not yet suitable to move in and I am going to need a few days to put things in place.

"Okay." Sherlock agreed. "Why are you renting the other apartment? How long are you staying?"

"Indefinitely. I got a job at the university."

"So, you're coming back?" Sherlock's voice was different, an edge of hope to it John never heard before.

"Yes!" the girl said, a big smile on her face.

Sherlock got up and hugged her and kissed her on the forehead, as a happy person who was not a highly functioning sociopath would do. John was quite shocked.

"Oh, stop it or I will leave! Pretend to ignore me before, as if I haven't been away for so long. " she threatened, trying to get rid of him.

She got away and sat again and looked at John. He asked.

"Who are you? How did you know he was alive?"

"I had reasons to believe so. And then I got here and I knew he was not dead. The cigarettes, the violin… He had to be alive." She lifted herself from her chair a bit and offered him her hand "My name's Dylan." She paused and added "Dylan Holmes."

John stared. Was it national joke day? Had he finally gone crazy? Was he imagining things?

"Dylan Holmes?" he repeated, ignoring her hand.

She let her hand fall.

"Yes."

"She's my sister." Sherlock answered for her, looking up.

"Sister?" John repeated the words, trying to make sense of them "You have a sister?"

"Oh, he never told you about me? Hum, now I am a bit disappointed. Not surprised, though." She said, a smileplaying on her lips.

"No, he never said he had a sister."

"Well, he does. That's me. Nice to meet you Dr. Watson. He certainly told me all about you."

John grabbed a small bench that was next to the kitchen table and sat. That was a bit too much for one day.

"So," he started, looking at her "you're his sister. "

"Yes." She said, smiling with his behaviour.

"Well, that's…new."

"I left a few years ago to go study in the United States. That's why you never saw me. Sherlock never admitted but he was a bit upset I left. I was the only person who actually enjoyed putting up with him. "

"But you were not at the funeral." John stated.

"No. You see, I hate funerals. And I never really believed he was dead. I think Mycroft is still upset but I hope he will forgive me."

John nodded and turned to Sherlock.

"And you. Where have you been hiding? How did you survive? I saw you fall."

"Molly." Sherlock said, "She helped me. I've been at her place ever since."

"Molly knew?" he seemed angry again.

"Yes. She was the only one that could help me. She had the means to do it and was willing to. She's been keeping me away from everyone, giving me a place to stay."

John still thought it was incredible. It was a lot to take in.

"I… I don't know what to say."

"I said I was sorry. I left you all those clues…" Sherlock said.

"Sorry it's not going to make it okay. And I am sorry I didn't think about looking for cigarettes and violins and what-not!" John said, sarcastically, getting up and pacing angrily.

"Amazing." Dylan said, looking at him.

"What is?"

"The cane. You don't need it anymore. When you came up the stairs I could hear your limping, you and the cane walking together. But now you are walking perfectly well again. Sherlock was right."

"How do you know all those things?"

"I've been keeping in touch with him." She said looking at her brother, "We write letters to each other. He told me all about you." And she turned to Sherlock, getting up "You. You need to let John here settle down a bit. He's quite shaky with all of this. Go get your things. You will need to talk to Lestrade… So, go get your things and bring Molly too. I am cooking dinner as soon as Mrs. Hudson gets home with the groceries…"

"She's dating the owner." Sherlock said, a sassy smile on his face.

"I know." Dylan said back, giving him a hug. "Now go. I will message Mycroft."

"Do you really have to?" Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, I do. Now, off you go."

Sherlock got up. He looked at John, who was still gazing him, unsure of what to do. He raised the collar of his coat and left, turning around with a flare.

"Don't you hate when he does that?" Dylan asked, following Sherlock with her eyes as he was leaving. "Putting the collar of the coat up, all cheekbones and mysterious…"

John laughed for the first time. He was not the only one to notice.

"Yes. Yes it does."

"Listen, Dr. Watson…"

"John, please."

"John." She agreed. And continued, "What Sherlock did was not okay. But I am sure he had a good reason to do it. He is quite of an… idiot sometimes, to put things nicely, but he does have a good heart. Not many people know that. Because he does not have a good heart to many people. I mean, he believes he has no heart at all. But he does. Sometimes. He is your friend, and you are the only friend he ever had. He wouldn't hurt you if he didn't have to."

John nodded.

The door downstairs opened and a pair of heels came up the stairs.

"Mrs. Hudson." She shouted, going to the door.

"Hello dear, did you find John?"

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you for the groceries. I am going to make dinner. Would you care to join us? Around seven?"

"Oh, yes darling, it would be lovely not to have to be the one cooking for a while."

"Okay, then. Seven, then." and added "Sherlock will be joining us."

"Oh, wonderful! I am going to get ready then!"

John heard Mrs. Hudson go to her own appartment. Dylan walked in the room, carrying the bag of groceries.

"Mrs Hudson knows?"

"I told her before she left. She took it pretty well, I must say."

John laughed. He had seen the war and fainted and Mrs. Hudson, as usual, took it all without a single shake.

John was putting the groceries in place when the doorbell rang. Mrs. Hudson opened the door and a pair of steps came up the stairs. Dylan was already cooking dinner.

Molly came in, carrying a huge suitcase.

"Molly, I assume!" Dylan said, getting close to her.

"Are you moving in too?" John asked, helping her with the case.

"Of course not. That's Sherlock's, right?" Dylan asked.

Molly looked at her.

"How do you know?" she asked.

"Oh, I am sorry. I am his sister."

Molly smiled and shook her hand.

"Oh, so you are the sister. Nice to meet you, I am Molly."

"Nice to meet you too. Get in, sit down. Dinner's almost ready."

"I will help you set the table. Hello John."

"Hi, Molly. Let me help you with that."

There were more steps on the stairs.

"So, you are back."

Dylan left kitchen and walked toward Mycroft, hugging him.

"I am!" she said, exited. Mycroft kissed her on the cheek, and looked at her, proudly.

"I knew you would miss London. Took you a while, though." He said

"Oh, don't be resentful. I won't be leaving for a while. Got a job at the university."

"So fast?"

"What can I say? They want me."

Mycroft laughed. John looked in awe. Mycroft was actually laughing. A genuine laugh, not a sarcastic one. That was a first.

"I talked to Sherlock." Mycroft added.

"Oh, you did already?"

"Yes. Quite clever of him. And Molly, who would have said." He looked at her and she smiled, ashamed.

Then he looked to the side and noticed John's presence.

"How did he took it?" he asked Dylan, pointing in John's direction with his head.

"Quite well, I must say. Tried to kill Sherlock."

Mycroft laughed again and John looked at Dylan, thanking her silently for not mentioning the faint. He would be ashamed of that for the rest of his life.

"Dinner is on the making." She said. And frowned, looking at Mycroft's face "Have you've been sleeping in the guest's room again?"

"The lady has been a bit upset with my late schedule."

Sherlock walked in bringing Mrs Hudson who was complaining:

"You had everyone worried, how could you do that, Sherlock."

"I already said I had too. I will explain to everyone later." He was saying to her.

"Maybe now is the right time." Dylan said, putting the pan on the kitchen table. Mycroft, John and Molly were already sitting. Mrs. Hudson joined them.

His sister pointed at a chair.

"You are going to sit and eat, because if you don't, I will kill you. No tricks this time."

Sherlock smiled and looked around. John looked at him, smiling too. He had forgiven him. And they were all there. He, the highly functioning sociopath had a house full of people. People who actually cared about him.

Across the city, on an abandoned warehouse three pictures were passing hands. First Dylan. Then John Watson and last Sherlock Holmes. The suited man pointed at him, circling his face with a black marker.

"He's back." He said. "And so is she."

The other man was bleeding, leaning against the wall. Scared. His face was bloated, wet with tears and sweat.

"We can't fail this time. You will make sure we don't fail. Because if you do I will skin you. Do you understand?"

The man nodded, crying a bit more.

"Ah, don't be such a baby! You will enjoy it, you'll see. Games are fun. And this time we can kill two birds with one stone. And if the doctor gets in the way, which he will, we'll kill him too." There was a sick joy in his words. "Now you will take this with you," he gave the man the photos "memorize the faces we will annihilate. Don't try to run or fool me, or you will be amongst them."

He turned his back and picked up the phone as it started to ring.

The man sat there for a while, holding the pictures in his hand, with the sound of the ringtone playing in his ears… "Ah, ah, ah, ah, staying alive, staying alive…"


	3. Sherlock back from the dead - 1st case

The House on the other side of the Street

The sun came in through the window, an unusual thing in the skies of London. It would not stay long. Grey clouds were gathering in the horizon.

John was reading the newspaper, back to his old chair. Earlier that morning he had been woken up by Sherlock, who had spent the night in the upstairs' room, telling him he needed to get back to his old room. So John got up and moved his things upstairs – he hadn't brought many downstairs anyway – and then sat in the chair, reading and enjoying the rays of sun, while muffled sounds of things being moved around came from Sherlock's room.

Dylan was up already when he came down, making breakfast. She ordered Sherlock he had to sit and eat and he tried to escape her until he saw that she was making pancakes. Apparently it was the only food Sherlock could not say no to. Dylan smiled to John and called him to come and eat too, warning Sherlock that he would have to share the pancakes with him.

After breakfast Sherlock disappeared to his room and that's where he was now.

Dylan came into the living room and sat at Sherlock's chair, sipping her tea.

"Nice day. Won't last long." She said, warming up her hands on the mug. "Anything interesting?" asked her, right after, pointing at the newspaper.

"Yes, actually." John answered, opening it on a specific page. "A famous journalist has been killed in his house last night. Ronald Adair. He has won an award for his documentary about American culture… He lived with his wife and only daughter. Apparently he had come back from a night out playing cards, something he did regularly," resumed John, as he was reading the article again, "went to his office and was found dead hours later by his wife and a neighbour she asked for help to open the office door, when her husband did not answer her callings. They found him lying near the table, the head mutilated by an expanding revolver bullet. The odd thing about this case is that no weapon was found in the room and the door was closed from the inside. The only way in or out was a window – twenty feet high – but at the bottom was a small garden and there were no signs of the flowers being stepped on and no marks on the grass." He turned the page. "On the table laid twenty pounds in bank notes and 27 pounds in silver and gold, arranged in little piles of different amount. In a sheet of paper were also the names of his companions from the night's game. "

"That's all?" Dylan asked, a frown in her forehead.

"Yes." John answered. "There is no evidence on how the murdered got in or out, so the police gave finally the verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons unknown." Finished John, placing the newspaper on the arm of his chair.

"Hum." Dylan mumbled, saying nothing more.

John looked at her, examining her ways. She looked back and smiled and he asked.

"So, you are like him, aren't you?" he asked. "I mean, those deductions and everything you said…"

"No." Dylan answered. "I mean, not exactly. Sherlock is all head. Focused." She made a small pause thinking where to begin and continued. "You see, I was basically raised by him and Mycroft. Sherlock's ten years older than me. Mycroft is seventeen. I was kind of an…accident. But then again, so were the Powerpuff girls and everybody knows how cool they are." She shook her head, laughing at her own silly joke. And proceeded. "My parents had a busy life, high jobs in high places. More or less like Mycroft now. So, Mycroft and Sherlock had to pretty much take care of me all by themselves. I grew up listening to them and hearing their deductions. But I was also raised by my Grandma until I was five. She decided to come to London to take care of me now that she was all alone and Grampa was dead… But she also died suddenly and I was stuck with the two of them. Mycroft was already worried about his professional career. It's like he was born knowing what he wanted to become. He also knew what responsibility meant from an early age. He did help raise Sherlock since Sherlock was born, and he was alone. That's why Sherlock is so indifferent to other people's pain. Because Mycroft knew nothing about affection; or should I say, he protected himself from pain by pretending not to care. Then it got stuck on him. And he did implement the same idea on Sherlock, but Like Mycroft usually says, Sherlock has the mind of a philosopher, or a scientist, yet he chose to be a detective. Because Sherlock had the capacity to dream. But he was just never taught to. So basically, what "saved" me, were the five years I spent with Gramma. She taught me about caring. Sherlock and Mycroft taught me about rationalizing things, about looking deeper. About thinking and observing instead of just seeing. And I appreciate it. They did the best they could. The best they knew." She finished, with a shake of her shoulders.

"I didn't know that." Said John, thinking about what he had heard.

"It's not something Sherlock would tell you."

She got up and washed her mug. Sherlock came from his room, with a few papers in his hands.

"Thank you, John." He said.

"What for?"

"For keeping my things in place. I appreciate it."

John nodded and Sherlock turned to Dylan.

"Dylan?" she turned around. "Will you get Lestrade?"

She got out of the kitchen, dressed her coat and nodded, going out. John observed her, trying to figure out what was going on.

"You're not going to talk to Lestrade yourself?" He asked, surprised.

"Not yet." Sherlock answered.

The door rang and a few minutes later Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs, carrying a box.

"A package for Dr. Watson." She said, putting the box on the floor.

"It's for me, Mrs. Hudson" Sherlock said, looking at the box.

"Oh, is this what you were talking about last night?"

"Yes, that's exactly it." And turned to John. "Sorry, I had to have it sent in your name. Security reasons."

"It's okay." John said. "What is it?"

"I don't have time to explain right now." Sherlock said, mysteriously. Oh, there he was again. "I need you to do something for me. I need you to go for a walk. A long walk, half an hour at least. Have lunch, walk more. And then meet me at the back entrance."

"Is there a back entrance?"

"Yes, to the other apartment, 221C. I need you to go for a walk and then get to the back street casually. It's important that nobody follows you. Do you understand?"

"Yes. But…" John tried.

"Now, go." Sherlock interrupted him.

John understood there would be no use in trying to get more information from him. He left down the stairs, taking a quick glance at the cane forgotten on the floor, knowing he would not need it.

Dylan walked in the police offices, asked for Lestrade and knocked on his the door before getting in. Lestrade said "come in" and she did. He turned around as soon as she opened the door.

"You!" he shouted, surprise all over his face. He got up, approached her and gave her a hug, taking a big look at her. "My god, you look just the same!"

"Oh, a bit older I would say." She laughed. "The last time I saw you was four years ago."

"It's not like it's been forever, thought it looks like it. I can't believe you're back! Wait, you finally considered my proposition? You're coming to work with us? God knows I've been trying to persuade you to take a position here since you graduated, but you have turned down all of my offers… We could really have your help, there was a strange case and we haven't had any help after what happened with your brother…" And then he shut up. He swallowed and pressed her arm. "I am sorry."

She smiled a bit.

"It's okay, inspector. He is not dead."

"What?" inspector Lestrade took a step back, looking at her.

"You heard me well. He is not dead. He faked it."

"But… No, it can't." and stopped for a while thinking. "How?"

"Well, the details take too long to explain and we don't have so much time. Molly helped him, for once. She has also been keeping him hidden, at his place."

"Molly?"

"Yes."

"Who would have said." Lestrade exclaimed, in awe. "But why didn't he come here himself?"

"He is taking care of a few things."

"Sherlock. Alive. Wow. That's… unbelievable."

"Yes, so if you help me you can get him back."

"To be honest with you, I am very happy he is alive, but I much rather work with you. You see, you don't tend to be so…rude to people as he is. You have something in your chest called heart that Sherlock forgot he had a long time ago, if he ever knew."

Dylan laughed.

"In this case, inspector, it is not a good thing. Sherlock thinks. Period. I think and I feel. It blurs my vision sometimes. Trust me, you're better off with him." And asked. "So, will you help us?"

Lestrade looked at her, conceding with a nod of his head. Sherlock was back. He needed him as well. He didn't have a choice. And, to be honest, he was glad he didn't.

John started to slow down a bit as he approached the back door of the apartment.

"John, come in. Through this door." Said Sherlock's voice.

"You're… How did you get in?" John asked, frowning his forehead while Sherlock closed the door behind him.

"This is how have been going in and out of the house. Small, quiet street. "

"But how do you get to our apartment?"

"This apartment is connected to ours. There's a door on the inside. You have to go thought the hall. It's down the stairs right next to Mrs. Hudson kitchen, but since nobody used this apartment she never bothered to change that."

"I see." Said John, looking around. "So…where are we going? Are we going to stay here?"

"We have to wait for a few hours. We have some furniture to assemble."

"Furniture?"

"Yes. I promised Dylan I would help her putting things in place in her apartment if she helped me out with Lestrade."

"So, we are going to assemble your sister's furniture and wait. For what exactly?"

"You will see."

"Why did I have to go for a walk and come back?"

"I needed to let him see you were out of the house." And before john could ask who "he" was he added " Now, let's see how this is done? Have you ever assembled furniture before?"

John opened the first box and started to take the pieces out of the cardbox. Sherlock laid down on the floor, palms touching each other, rested on his nose and chin.

"Aren't you going to help?"

"I need to think."

"Well, you can think and work!"

"Yes. In a bit." Sherlock added, not even bothering to get up.

John rolled his eyes and shook his head and began to work. Dylan had brought tools as well and that made the work easier. He started hammering some nails into a shelf. Supposedly that should be an easy-to-assemble shelf. Then he moved to a table. The chairs were assembled already.

"Could you please keep it quiet for a while?" Sherlock asked, when he was almost finishing another shelf.

"Wha… excuse me?" said John, hammer in hand, approaching Sherlock. "I am here, making your job, the job you said your sister you would do, while you are there again, all mysterious and thoughtful and you ask me to keep it quiet?"

Sherlock looked at him and at the hand that held the hammer and got up.

"You're right. It's okay, I figured it out already." And looked around. He picked up a box that was amongst what John supposed were Dylan's things and asked. "Want to play Cluedo?"

"We've got to finished doing this."

"We don't have to finish today. You've done most of it, anyway."

"Yes, I did." John agreed, a look of incredulity in his eyes.

"So… want to play?"

There really wasn't much he could do. He put the hammer next to the other tools and joined Sherlock who was already preparing the game.

"I play, but we play according to the game's rules." He said.

"Oh, but the rules are wr…" Sherlock saw the look on John's eyes. "Okay. Anything is fine to me."

They played for a few hours. Then, suddenly Sherlock got up.

"It's time." He said, putting some strange clothes over his own. He handed some to John.

"What's this?"

"Disguises. It's already dark but we better play it safe."

"What for?"

Once again Sherlock did not answer. He opened the door a little bit and looked at both sides of the street.

"Come on."

John put the wig on and followed Sherlock down the street. It was dark on that side, almost no street lamps lit up yet.

Sherlock moved slowly and carefully, looking for followers. They walked through a maze of streets and ended finally at a very small passage. Sherlock stopped in front of a house that was being rebuilt and opened the door silently. Sherlock walked in and John followed. Sherlock walked carefully until they were at the front of the house and finally John recognised where they were. They were across 221B, in one of the houses that had been destroyed by the explosion in Baker Street. He looked at John and pointed to their own apartment. John looked at the window, and there, concealed by the curtains but still visible was… Sherlock.

"What? How? You're there and you're here?" John whispered the question.

"It's not me, obviously." Sherlock explained, in the same tone. "It's a bust made in wax. Made by a friend of mine, by request, a few years ago "

The bust moved.

"Mrs. Hudson." They said at the same time, thought the words had an inquisitive tone on Dr. Watson's whisper.

"But, why do you need a bust?" John asked, confused.

"Because," explained Sherlock, "I need a certain person to think I am there when in reality I am not."

Then he threw John slowly against the wall and put a finger to his own lips, asking John to be silent. A moment later, while they were still concealed by the darkness, the door of the house opened and shut. A man, carrying a stick passed them, not even noticing the two shadows pressed against the wall. He crept close to the window, and noiseless he put the stick on the floor. He kneeled down and started to busy himself in a task that ended with a loud click. Then he got up again and John could see that what before looked like a stick was actually a gun. The man approached the window carefully and pointed the gun. He shot, silently. Then, resting the gun again he gave a sigh of satisfaction. At that moment Sherlock came out of the darkness and hit him in the ribcage, then in the face, knocking him down. At the same time the back door opened and a bunch of cops walked in the room, guns pointed out, some carrying lanterns, all followed by Lestrade.

Lestrade shouted. "Arrest him. I want him handcuffed and in the car." And then turned to Sherlock, who was composing himself. "So, it is true. You are alive."

And without waiting for a response he grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and gave him a hug, patting his back.

"Dylan explained everything to you?" Sherlock asked, getting free of Lestrade's embrace, but satisfied.

"Yes, she explained almost everything. We are going to charge that man by attempt of murder of Sherlock Holmes."

"No." Sherlock said "I don't want my name related to this case."

"Then, what are we going to charge him for?"

"The crime he actually committed. The death of the famous Pulitzer winner, Ronald Adair."

"What?" said Lestrade and John at the same time.

"That man you just arrested. Professional shooter. And Moriarty's right hand. His other occupation, if you can call it that, is to win money playing foul. As you know Mr. Adair was a card's enthusiast and he and this man, his game partner have been winning fair often. Until the journalist found out that Mr. Moran there – that's his name – had been cheating. Adair was an honest man and he wanted to put a stop to it. So he talked with him and threatened to expose him unless he resigned from any card's play. Well, Moran was not willing to give up on his easy way of living, so he decided to get rid of Mr. Adair. That's how he killed him. Clean shot from window through window. At the time of his death Adair was working out on how much money he would have to return to his game companion's, as he would not profit from his partner's foul play, hence the money and the paper on top of his office's table."

John shook his head, still not believing.

"But, how did you know he was going to try to find you and attack you tonight?"

"You went for a walk without your cane." Pointed Sherlock out, a smug smile on his face. "I knew he would pay close attention to you. Moriaty's right hand, he had a grudge against me as well. He was a clever man. Your little walk without the cane made him realise that I was back. So I took my precautions. And I knew I would need that bust eventually."

"And how did you connect the things?"

"Well, there are only so many shooters with such a gun in London, Dr. Watson. I had heard of Mr. Moran before. Simple."

"Okay." Said Lestrade with a sigh after hearing Sherlock's explication. "Still, I will need you to come with me. Your sister did not explain how you survived that fall and I would really like to know. Plus, I need to make a few more questions."

Sherlock conceded.

"I just need to see how Mrs. Hudson is before I go."

"Oh, don't worry. Your sister's with her already. She will take care of her." And he paused. "Nice wigs you two have."

Sherlock and John looked at each other, removed the wigs, followed inspector Lestrade into a police's car and left to Scotland Yard.

Sherlock stopped pacing as he finished his story. Inspector Lestrade, and John, who had heard the story for the first time as well, looked quite surprised.

"So, you're saying that with Molly, the Homeless Network and a laundry van you were able to pretend to be dead?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes, roughly explained." He seemed annoyed.

"But, how… I mean… there was a funeral."

"Oh, well, Molly knows people, who know people."

"Molly?" Inspector Lestrade asked, not looking for an answer. "Who would have said."

The door of his office opened and agent Donovan walked in, an incredulous smile on her face.

"So, it is true." She started. "The freak did come back from the dead." And stopped, looking at Sherlock.

"Yes." Sherlock answered. "And Anderson's wife is out of town again I see."

Agent Donovan smiled, offering her hand in a sign of piece.

"Welcome back."

"Thank you." Sherlock said, taking her hand in his.

Then with half a smile he nodded at her and at Lestrade, pulled the collar of his coat up and turned around.

"Come on, John." He called.

John Watson nodded to them as well and followed, right behind him. It was time to get back to his blog.


End file.
